


Riding With Airman Novak

by inkandpaperqwerty



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Air Force, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Dead Castiel, Dean Winchester Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Ghost Castiel, Marines, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Riding With Private Malone, Soldier Castiel, Soldier Dean, Songfic, but not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 21:10:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16457282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandpaperqwerty/pseuds/inkandpaperqwerty
Summary: Dean was just looking to get a cheap car. He didn't plan on finding a letter from a dead soldier, and he certainly didn't expect that dead soldier to become his friend. Then again, since when was Dean Winchester's life what he expected or wanted it to be?





	Riding With Airman Novak

**Author's Note:**

> I would highly recommend listening to the song before reading the story, but you don't need to know the song to get the story. I just think it really enhances the experience.
> 
> [Riding With Private Malone by David Ball](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lx9n56fWqfQ)

She was beautiful.

No, she was stunning. She was breathtaking. She was—she was—

She was love at first sight.

When Dean responded to the classifieds ad that said ‘old Chevy,’ he was just looking for a cheap ride that could get him to and from work in one piece. When he spoke to the old lady who owned it, she told him she didn’t know the year—or even if it ran—and directed him to a ramshackle barn that may or may not have housed a few unsavory activities over the years.

But it was only a thousand dollars, and Dean was fresh out of the service and hurting for money, so he figured he could at least give it a look. He was a pretty good mechanic, and there was plenty of space in his Uncle Bobby’s garage for Dean to keep a personal project.

Really, it all came down to practicality. So, naturally, Dean never imagined when he pulled the dirty, green, army tarp off his practical Chevy, he would fine be a sleek, black, all-but-untouched ‘67 Chevy Impala. But there she was. Sure, she hadn’t been driven in a couple decades, she was dusty and a little discolored, and she probably wasn’t in the best condition, but—

But she was so beautiful. And with a single transaction, she was his.

Did Dean feel a little guilty counting out a mere ten Benjamins? Yes.

But you know what? He had served his country. He had _bled_ for his country. He had enough nightmares to last a lifetime, and the woman didn’t appear to be hurting for money, and he definitely _was,_ so…

“Boy, I thought you said you was buyin’ a junk.”

Dean straightened up with a smile and pointed to the muscle car with her hood propped open. “Isn’t she gorgeous?” He wiped his hands on a shop rag and tossed it aside, putting his hands on his hips and surveying his bounty. “I couldn’t believe it. I mean, it’s been sitting in a barn for, like, thirty years, but… just look at her, Bobby.”

Bobby hummed to himself and walked around it, examining a few things and touching a few others. “She needs a little tunin’ up, but if you only paid a grand, I oughta call the cops, ‘cause this right here’s a steal.”

Dean laughed and nodded his head in agreement, moving toward the front of the vehicle and getting in on the driver’s side. He leaned back in the seat and sighed contently, putting his hands on the wheel and letting a familiar, anticipatory thrill run through him.

“Man, I can’t wait to get her out on the roads. I mean _really_ on the roads, you know?” Dean looked around the cab and fiddled with a few of the dials and knobs. “I don’t think anything on the inside needs fixing.”

Bobby tapped on the passenger-side window, and Dean leaned over to roll it down. Bobby leaned in and took a quick look around. “You don’t need to fix the windows or buttons or nothin’?”

Dean pursed his lips and shook his head, checking the visors and mirrors. “No, I think it’s good.” He leaned over again and popped the glove box open, a slight frown twisting his features at what he found.

There was the car’s manual, of course, and severely out-of-date registration, but on top of those, there was an old, discolored envelope. Dean grabbed it and turned it over in his hands, but despite being sealed and clearly holding something, it was completely unmarked.

“Well? You gonna open it, or you gonna stare at it all day?”

Dean stuck his tongue out in Bobby’s direction and pulled the keys from the ashtray, using one as a letter opener. He pulled the letter out—a single piece of paper, folded thrice—and began to read.

 

> _July 24 th, 1967_
> 
> _My name is Airman Castiel Novak, and if you’re reading this… then I guess I never made it home. I hope Mother doesn’t hold onto Baby for too long; she’s too beautiful not to be out on the road! But, knowing Mother as well as I do, she likely did exactly that. I’ll assume she kept Baby in storage and made a sad affair of the whole thing. But listen; for every dream that shatters, another dream comes true. Baby was my dream… but she’s yours now, and all I want is for you to take good care of her. Take her, make her your own, make her your dream… just remember, she was mine first, and you’ll always be riding with Airman Castiel Novak._

Dean didn’t say anything for a while after he read the letter. He handed it to Bobby, and a somber mood fell over both of them, but Bobby was quick to break it.

“Well.” He handed the letter back to Dean and gave the roof a few pats. “Hop to it, boy, and get this girl on the road. I think Novak and Baby have been waiting long enough, don’t you?”

Dean stared at the letter for another moment, still lost in a sensation of… somber kinship. Dean had been shot overseas. He could have died—he knew others who did, had attended too many funerals with a twenty-one-gun salute—but he didn’t. He had enough PTSD to keep all of Sioux Falls from sleeping at night, and his wounds were fresh enough that he could feel a twinge in his shoulder and chest when he turned just right, but he had still made it home.

He had made it home, and Airman Novak had not.

“Uh—” Dean cleared his throat and stuck the note back in the envelope, shoving it back in the glovebox. “Right. Right, gotta get her road ready.” He flashed Bobby a quick smile, pretending his heart hadn’t begun to pound, pretending the glint of sunlight reflecting off Baby’s hood didn’t make him want to duck for cover, pretending he couldn’t hear gunfire in the distance. “I’ll have her running good in no time at all.”

* * *

Dean was true to his word. Less than a week after buying Baby, he had her shining like a diamond and purring like a kitten. He loved it, loved her, loved to feel the thundering horses under the hood, loved the feeling he got when all the girls in town stopped and stared at him and his ride. It made him feel like a carefree teenager again. Dean Winchester, Car Connoisseur and Womanizer Extraordinaire, didn’t have nightmares and cold sweats. He had a GED and red-blooded patriotism and every intention of one day driving a car just like Baby.

Dean _loved_ Baby.

Sure, she still had a few quirks. Even after all his fiddling, he couldn’t get the buttons on the radio to work quite right, but he honestly didn’t mind. It worked often enough, and the weird way it sometimes refused to pick up anything but oldies shows and music from days gone by… well, it grew on him. It became familiar, and it wasn’t long before he stopped trying to fix the knobs altogether. Not long after that, he stopped seeing the knobs as broken.

Sometimes, when the radio would tune itself in an attempt to get the best signal, Dean thought he could see someone out of the corner of his eye; like maybe, if he turned really quickly, he would see a soldier riding shotgun next to him.

Airman Castiel Novak. Such a weird name, and such a quirky way of talking. ‘For every dream that shatters, another one comes true?’ What was this _Castiel,_ some kind of poet? Oh, and the way he said ‘Mother’ instead of something more casual. It made him seem oddly stuffy, which was weird, because he seemed pretty easygoing in the rest of the letter.

“Dude, you need to let it go. You’re trying to figure out who this guy was from one paragraph. That’s impossible.”

Dean sucked on his milkshake straw and looked out the window at Baby, gleaming in the sunlight, as perfect as ever. “I know, Sammy, I just… I mean, think about the fact that the car was in that barn at all. No siblings took it, no friends, no cousins. It just… makes me curious, you know? Who was this guy? Did the mom refuse to let anyone in the family have it because she couldn’t let it go, or did a guy friendly enough to leave a note for the future driver of his car actually have no friends? Was he MIA? Was his family holding out hope he would come home and drive Baby someday?” Dean sucked on the milkshake again, turning his barstool from left to right and back again. “I dunno. It just bugs me.”

Sam sucked on his own milkshake—a _strawberry_ one, what a _heathen_ —and shrugged his shoulders. “Why don’t you go back to talk to the old lady? Or try and look him up?”

Dean stirred his desert with his straw, lips pursed and head slightly tilted. “I don’t know… that’s not creepy?”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He shrugged. “I mean, it’s like you said. You’re curious. I would be curious, too, if I found a note from the past in my car. It’s almost like a… a treasure hunt, you know? Or an expedition.”

Dean chuckled to himself, shaking his head with a smile.

“What?” Sam questioned, already preparing his Offended Little Brother Face™ for use.

“I was just thinking you two probably would have gotten along. So optimistic.” He spread his arms with dramatic flair. “For every dream that shatters, another one comes true, so take this dream car and go on a magical treasure hunt. Sing some songs, while you’re at it, this is a freaking Disney movie you’re a part of now.”

Sam tried to glare, but he wound up laughing. “Fine, fine. That’s the last time I offer _you_ advice.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, Sammy.” Dean sucked on his straw again and watched as Sam’s gaze lingered on the vehicle parked outside. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

Sam chuckled, an almost exasperated expression crossing his face. “Yes, Dean. She’s a beauty.”

Dean swallowed a mouthful of chocolate ice cream and snapped his fingers, pointing at Sam. “Hey, speaking of beauties, how’s yours doing?”

Sam laughed nervously, cheeks flushing slightly. “Um, I actually have to talk to you about that.”

Dean frowned slightly, worry creasing his brow. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Um, nothing’s wrong.” Sam cleared his throat. “Not really. But, uh… well, we’re getting married.” He gave a helpless shrug and a cautious smile. “Um, two months from now. Just a small ceremony, but, uh, but we would like you to be there.”

Dean blinked. “Holy crap. That’s… sudden. I mean, congratulations, but why the rush?”

Sam rubbed the back of his neck and smiled that same, lopsided, uncertain smile. “Well… that’s another thing I have to talk to you about.”

Dean looked at him for a moment, and then the pieces started to come together in his brain. “Wait a minute. Am I gonna be an uncle?”

* * *

“Yes, Sam, I know I’m not supposed to drive while I’m on the phone. I just wanted to give you an update.” Dean squinted into the oncoming rain as he spoke, barely able to see, even with the windshield wipers on high.

“I still don’t see why you had to leave tonight.” Sam’s voice crackled through the poor connection. “This weather is terrible, and we have plenty of room for you here.”

“Sam, you know why.” Dean blinked hard, eyes tired from a long day followed immediately by a long drive. “I love spending Christmas with you and Jess and your three, admittedly adorable, devil spawn, but I can’t let Bobby be alone on Christmas. You get me Christmas Eve, he gets me Christmas Day.”

“But the _rain_ —”

“Oops, gotta go Sammy, can’t talk and drive in bad weather!” Dean snapped his phone shut and tossed it on the passenger seat, exhaling loudly. “He’s so ridiculous.”  He laughed softly and shook his head, catching a glimpse of Air Force blue every time his head went to the right.

He didn’t bother looking. No one was ever there.

He did, however, look at the picture clipped to the passenger side visor from time to time. “Our parents died in a house fire when Sam was just a baby, and we went to stay with our uncle. But, you know, he had to support us on just his income, so I took care of Sammy most of the time…” Dean laughed again and shook his head. “But I’m tellin’ you, Castiel, the way he acts sometimes, you would think _he_ raised _me._ ”

If Dean didn’t know any better, he would have sworn up and down that the wallet-sized photo was laughing at his story. Maybe that was weird—maybe it was weird he kept a photo of Airman Castiel Novak in his car at all, and maybe it was weird that he had been on a first-name basis with the dead soldier for years—but he liked talking to his photographic friend.

It had been a mere two months after that memorable day in the ice cream parlor that Dean got a packet in the mail from Sam containing what little information was available to the public on the deceased airman.

Dean would never admit it to anyone still among the living, but he had cried upon seeing the picture for the first time. Castiel had never even made it to twenty, a fact made obvious by his innocent eyes and baby face. Dean couldn’t even pretend that _maybe_ the young man had consumed a legal drink before going down in a blaze of fire and shrapnel and smoke. Nineteen was so far in Dean’s own rearview mirror that as far as he was concerned, Castiel died a child.

“I guess I shouldn’t complain about him too much, huh? If it weren’t for him, I would still have no idea what you looked like or what division you were in…”

Dean could feel it as soon as he was in the turn. He could feel Baby sliding, pitching, struggling to stay connected to the asphalt beneath her tires. He knew it was bad, and he knew there would be an accident, but all he heard was the crunch of metal, and then everything went dark.

What happened after that, he didn’t know.

* * *

“Sir? Sir?”

Dean blinked slowly, squinting at the rain falling from the sky.

“Um, yes, I think he’s conscious. I don’t—I don’t know how long he was out here. I live up on the hill, and it wasn’t until the fire—oh, right, sorry. Yes, I’ll—”

Dean jerked when a hand touched his shoulder, and after a disoriented search of the sky above, he found a floating head. Well, it probably wasn’t floating, but he couldn’t see the body from his angle, and with how much his head was pounding, he very well could have been seeing things.

“Sir, can you tell me your name?”

Dean opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Um, I think he’s trying to respond, but he can’t speak. But he’s trying. What should I do?”

Dean turned his head, squinting at the fire in the near distance. _Baby…_ She was burning. He had been burning, too. Or at least, he thought he had. He couldn’t remember much. He couldn’t _understand_ much, to be honest.

“No, no, I don’t think he can move. No, um, there was a man in uniform—a soldier, I think? Air Force, maybe? I don’t know. I didn’t get a name; the soldier just pulled this guy out of the fire and then disappeared. Not literally, of course, but he just—he must have left while my back was turned. Oh! Right. I can try…”

Her voice was getting warbled, and his ears were starting to ring again, but he still managed to catch the occasional flicker of blue hovering beside the burning car.

_Castiel…_

Dean went back under.

* * *

They said he was crazy.

They said that no one in their right might would try to restore a vehicle that utterly destroyed; that any sane person would just go buy a new one. But Dean didn’t. He couldn’t.

They said Dean had some kind of guardian angel watching over him, that he couldn’t have survived any other way, that it was tempting fate to drive the same car he had nearly died in. But Dean didn’t care. He couldn’t.

He built Baby from the ground up, restored her to her former glory, and after months of spending every free moment in the garage… she was back.

Dean opened the driver’s side door and got in, putting both hands on the wheel and just sitting there. It was four in the morning, and he had nowhere to go. He hadn’t even opened the garage door. He just wanted to get that feeling back. He just wanted it to be a bright, summer afternoon with an iced tea in the cupholder and a cool breeze in his hair.

“Come on…” Dean gripped the wheel a little tighter and turned his head to look at the glovebox. “Please. I know the letter’s gone, I know the picture’s gone, but…” His eyes burned as tears welled up in them. “I have lost… so much. I lost my parents, I lost my childhood, I lost friends, I lost whatever mental stability I had before…” He choked on his words and shook his head, lowering his forehead to the steering wheel. “I know Sammy isn’t really gone, but he’s not mine anymore, and I… I can’t lose you, too. I felt… I felt safe in this car, I felt _happy._ I felt like I wasn’t alone anymore, and I can’t lose that. I just—I can’t. I can’t.”

Dean screwed his eyes shut, a few tears falling from his eyes. His shoulder and chest ached, phantom pains from his old gunshot wound triggered by the accident. He heard the sounds of war he had once thought maybe— _just maybe—_ he was free from, the car fire entirely too similar to an IED going off beneath a Jeep for his brain to pretend it didn’t remember exactly how both sensations felt.

“July 24th, 1967.”

Dean froze, eyes snapping open.

“My name is Airman Castiel Novak, and if you’re reading this…”

Dean didn’t move. He was afraid to. He was afraid the voice would stop.

“…then I guess I never made it home.”

It was low and rumbling, simultaneously rough and soothing.

“I hope Mother doesn’t hold onto Baby for too long; she’s too beautiful not to be out on the road!”

Dean could still picture the large, looping letters in his mind—could still picture those sparkling eyes and boyish features—and he couldn’t help but think the voice didn’t match the script or face at all.

“But, knowing Mother as well as I do, she likely did exactly that.”

And yet, that was what made it so undeniably _Castiel_.

 “I’ll assume she kept Baby in storage and made a sad affair of the whole thing.”

Nothing else about Castiel made sense; why would his voice?

“But listen; for every dream that shatters, another one comes true. Baby was my dream…”

Dean blinked a few times and slowly lifted his head, spying that same old Air Force blue in his peripherals. He could see the faint outline of a person reflected in the windshield, but the features were all undefined.

“…but she’s yours now, and all I want is for you to take good care of her.”

Dean had never been able to look before. Every time, no matter how fast he moved his head, there was nothing there. He didn’t want Castiel to leave.

“Take her, make her your own, make her _your_ dream…”

But he had never heard Castiel’s voice before.

“…just remember, she was mine first, and you’ll always be riding with Airman Castiel Novak.”

Dean hesitated for another moment, sucked in a breath, and whipped around to his right. He was met with the most unearthly shade of blue had ever seen in his life, a shade the cameras in 1967 hadn’t quite been able to capture.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean stared. He breathed. He smiled.

“Hi, Cas.”

**Author's Note:**

> I left this with a very open ending, because I think it could go a lot of cool ways. Dean could go on living with this ghost that just follows him around; he could go on to meet a bunch of other ghosts (such as the other angels being deceased soldiers); he could actually be dead somehow in that last scene, and that's why he's able to see and hear Castiel now. There are just a lot of fun outcomes. But I didn't want to stray too far past the end of the song, especially when I have so many projects I'm already working on that I need to finish.
> 
> Leave some ideas in the comments! I would love to hear your theories.


End file.
